fragmented forevers
by nlizzette7
Summary: It was a love interrupted, but it was love still. / A home for all of my requested drabbles and CB passages.
1. I

This is a home for all of the drabbles I write on Tumblr and will be updated with every few I write. If you'd like to request one, drop me a note on Tumblr, or leave it in your review.

* * *

**in another life.**

In an alternate reality, Harold doesn't get a taste for fine wine or even finer Italian male models, the world forgets to end, and Blair attends the Sheppard Wedding dressed in purple and possibility.

In an alternate reality, Chuck Bass wears a matching tie, slinks behind her because Nate is too tipsy to mind his date, Serena is too tipsy to mind her friendship - _and has the nape of Blair's neck always been so smooth?_

In an alternate reality, love doesn't always need limos to get someplace, and when the wedding violins begin to hum, Chuck decidedly prompts her, "Waldorf, have you seen the barroom?"

_- and has the devil always been this handsome?_

_/_

**basses hate waiting.**

Chuck loves Blair a bit more than what the priests mean when they declare two lovers "man and wife", which is why he's been prepared to murder for her since the moment she was sure.

He calls her fifteen times, then another ten, and he knows he's being irrational, and he knows that she'll pretend to hate him for days if this is just a result of Manhattan traffic or a hectic day at Waldorf Designs, but love and hate have always flowed synonymously in this relationship - so he doesn't bother to care.

Three hours later, Blair tiptoes home to find that her husband has fallen asleep angry, has broken his phone with overuse, has dozed off at an angle which will undoubtedly cause a cramp that he'll ask her to massage out later - so she's quiet when she slips the scarf she was out late buying around his neck.

He's always had one from before, it's about time he has proof of the after.

/

**fuller circles.**

"You're like magic," Blair whispers into his ear, a small hand cups his jaw, prim lips find his cheekbone, and time is just an illusion for two lost souls who've victored over it again and then again. "All you have to do is touch me, and I'm seventeen again, you're asking me if I'm sure…"

"_Are_ you sure?" Chuck asks her atop leather seats, Chuck asks her in a little hotel room after that engagement ring finds itself on the right finger.

It always comes back to that.

/

**tantrums.**

When Henry is three years old, Blair nearly has a breakdown because the two male Basses of her household are fighting over the fine threads of an Armani scarf - one _must _wear it, the other _must _use it as a pacifier - so she steals it away from both and decides it makes a fine addition to her outfit that day.

When Henry is ten years old, Blair nearly has yet another breakdown because the two male Basses of her household have taken up residence of their sitting room chaise to watch _Battle Royale_ - Scotch in the bigger hand, apple juice in the tinier one - until, of course, the remote is charmingly stolen away and the two watch _Breakfast at Tiffany's _with sullen faces on for the rest of the afternoon.

When Henry is sixteen years old, Blair nearly passes out when Gossip Girl 2.0 reports on her son's recent deflowering with a dark-haired girl named Charlotte, and cannot fathom what to do when the moody teen closes his door with a _slam _upstairs - until her husband murmurs with a smug grin, "I've got this one."

/

**tell me.**

"I don't want to talk about this," Blair pleads and huffs as Chuck trails her around their apartment, pinching the hem of her skirt, kissing the back of her neck, only to get slapped on the cheek and hand with every advance he makes.

"I'm predicting a stealthy combination of premature ejaculation and repulsive bodily hair," Chuck smirked. "Tell me, was Humphrey able to count how many times you faked an orgasm for him?"

"Tell me," Blair suddenly purrs, and Chuck sees the devilish grin reflected back at him. "Will you be able to count how many times I bring you to your knees tonight?" _- and with that, she flounces off to fetch the handcuffs._

_/_

**and Chuck falls ill.**

He doesn't even want to roll out of bed to bathe until her dress comes off, followed by one pearl earring, followed by another, followed by his favorite combination of La Perla's spring catalogue, not until he cranes his muggy head, parts his lips with a heavy breath, and hears her call, "Your bath is ready…as is your wife."

He's infuriating when she tries to offer him Tylenol and _n__o, Chuck, you cannot drink it with whiskey_ - but the thick red syrup holds a whole new appeal when it's dripping down her navel, and he's happy enough to take his dose when it's pasted all over Blair.

He snores when he's sick - you know, more than usual - and Blair will never admit that she loves when he's like this, loves when his rise is a bit delayed, loves that she can temporarily worry herself with picking up the pieces of a man who hates being so broken.


	2. II

**karma.**

Chuck assumes that this very moment would be all over Gossip Girl had Humphrey not traded in his computer screen in favor of raising his own furry-haired spawn.

His daughter thinks herself a little queen like her mother, his son is slowly wreaking havoc upon the Upper East Side, and their four-hundred dollar Maclaren keeps veering off into the street, making the red-faced man with well-quaffed hair want to ditch the thing all together.

"_Henry_," Chuck groans to the cheerful little toddler. "You can't just tug on the skirts of random women when…"

"_Audrey_," Chuck snaps, "Daddy isn't going to buy you the thirty-thousand dollar…"

It's karma in its worst round.

/

**infinite.**

The first time his father dies is the first time Chuck ever needs Blair to knot his tie for him - and she does, she works at it slowly while he slides his thumb across one of her pretty brown ringlets, his eyes empty, his lips chapped - and he breathes her in because there's no air left.

"Okay?" Blair asks, clasps his chin in both of her hands - he pretends not to cry, she pretends not to look - and then she sinks onto her knees in front of him, kisses his chin even though he only scowls back, and she says, "I'm never going to stop."

And four years later, when his father dies a second time, and he needs her to loosen his tie afterwards, needs her little body propped under his because there is no will left to walk alone, Chuck realizes that she never did.

/

**flip a coin.**

"No, you're wrong," Nate begins in the dank waiting room, only semi-intense about it because arguments between these two blondes are never quite logical enough, never quite important enough to shake the world as it does when their two best friends fight. "He's going to be all Chuck, a ladies' man, black cropped hair, onyx eyes."

"_No_, Nate," Serena bets. "I swear, if B were to simply _will_ that baby to look like her, it would. He's going to be all delicate, light hair, a tiny little nose…"

The bet breaks when a white-coated man ushers them into a bright room, and Nate is incredulous when he sees his best friend sobbing, and Serena's heart jumps when her own best friend is found clutching onto a little bundle of two-hours old, pink blush on pale skin, a slanted nose by cherub cheeks, jet black hair undone by light eyes.

Neither Nate nor Serena wins the bet.

/

**where the heart is.**

An hour on the jet, and the clouds look like Henry's toys, and the attendant offers him macaroons, and he feels his scarf pinch a sliver of skin just as he's falling into a dreamless sleep.

He pulls it off to find Blair's miniature metal heart pressed up to his chest.

"A 2:00 back to New York," Chuck orders.

A stack of papers will have to find a way to sign themselves.

/

**wedding bells and champagne hearts.**

She's only seen him laugh like this twice, once when they deigned to be party-crashers, floated through the air upon dancing seats, another time in Stockholm, during the summer between young madness and a more brutal one - there was karaoke involved, much to Blair's chagrin.

But now Chuck is different, now his grin is wide, his eyes are heavy, and they're both too old to be this drunk. They're just so _high_ off the thrill of completion when he lifts her, tries his best to stumble with her into their hotel suite and fails terribly, sends them to the floor, both giggling like seventeen year olds hooking up in the back of a limo - her wedding dress tangles their legs, but neither minds.

"We're a mess, Bass," Blair slurs lightly, ever elegant, even in her inebriated state, and Chuck tilts his head back on the floor, reaches over to give her kisses that make no sense, but she moans anyway, lipstick painting his skin with this moment, and there are tears (some of his) in the mix.

"Yes," he whispers back, curling his fingers into her dress. "We are."

/

**seven minutes.**

"Don't you dare come near me, Bass," Blair whispers, and Chuck surprisingly obeys, surprisingly leaves his snarky lips shut, surprisingly just waits at the other end of the closet, because it's _her _who's already taken the step forward, who's already impossibly close.

"Don't even think about touching me," Blair orders, and Chuck doesn't, doesn't even lift a finger, doesn't move his hands from where they're still at his sides, just sets amused hazel eyes on Blair, because it's _her _hands on his chest, hesitant but unwavering in their pursuit.

"And do _not _kiss me," Blair breathes, small lips matching her pretty coral dress, and Chuck doesn't kiss her, just lets her lips fall onto his, just breathes through his nose when her tongue unknowingly slips over his bottom lip - _because if she's the one doing it all, she's the one who can pretend that she's not in love with her boyfriend's best friend._

Power plays were always their favorite childhood game.


	3. III

**skin-soaked.**

Blair likes romantic movies, and Chuck likes the way her pulse races under his fingertips while they watch fictional couples kiss, fall apart, and kiss again - until she sees _The Notebook _and gets it into her head that she absolutely _must _kiss him in the rain.

He convinces her that it's impractical, his Armani will get wet, her hair will get soaked - Chuck Bass and Blair Waldorf don't need sloppy kisses under thunderstorms and possible pneumonia to be epic because they already are.

But he surprises her anyway because he's made it a habit not to disappoint her, and when a cloud falls over the Upper East Side, Chuck has Arthur pull over, and he drags Blair out onto a puddled Park Avenue, pushes her up against the side of his car and kisses her until she might be drowning.

And after, Chuck dries her off with his Armani, asks her if she's happy.

"You were right, Bass," Blair sighs, tugging at one of her own damp curls. "They can have the rain - I only want our limo." And with that, the film reels, her hand slides, and she pulls him in for a kiss that would make cinematic history, if aired.

[Fade to black]

/

**a few last dances.**

Audrey Bass dances like her mother - delicate as a feather, but still too stubborn to be lead - and Chuck had never once thought that he'd admire anything more than headbands and a particular ex-Waldorf, but somehow his daughter is the product of twenty-one years of his pure adoration.

"Are you getting teary-eyed, Dad?" Audrey teases, an airy laugh slipping from her lips when her father dips her, the hem of her wedding dress pooling across hardwood, the sweep of long black hair hitting her lower back. Chuck pulls her closer, winks at his wife from across the dance floor, where she's fussing with Henry's hair, and Chuck's son is amorously rolling his eyes.

"I'm still Chuck Bass," he scoffs, throwing in another dip to prove his point. Audrey smirks, and it's like spinning across the floor with his own reflection for a moment.

It's then that the girl presses her chin into her father's shoulder, sighs into the air when she whispers, "Are you _sure_, Daddy?"

His head snaps back, and he stares at her, just sways for a few long seconds.

He may still be Chuck Bass -

- but the tears come before he can even think to stop them.

/

**ashes.**

She's slurring, and he's taken back to nights too bittersweet to remember - her heels hooked over one finger, her dress strap slipping off one pale shoulder - and it hurts too much, stings like a burning cigarette, but Blair never bothers leaving the ashes behind.

"What do you want, Blair?"

"I want your limo, close to midnight, eyes half-closed, your lips at my ear - "

"Stop, Blair."

"I want that ball you threw, peonies and macaroons, and you're telling me you love me - "

"You're telling me you love Dan," Chuck interrupts, curls his hand against his chest as he's murmuring the words. "A year later."

"I'm telling you I love you," Blair slurs. There's a crash, a sigh, a cough. "I'm telling you that I was afraid we were too much, so I chose something that was nothing at all." She sighs again. "I'm telling you that these nights belong to you."

Chuck closes his eyes. "Everything belongs to you."

Blair closes her eyes. "That's why we're the best part."

_Click._

There go the ashes after all.

/

**film.**

It's dirty, and it's delicious.

"Look," Chuck rasps, fingers wet with her, fingers sliding under her chin, forcing her to look up at the black lens, and her cheeks are red, her pulse quickens, his thrusts sharpen, his fingers curl into her skin like he's trying to fuck what's underneath too.

It's dirty when it's like this, when she's exposed, and he's panting - and neither of them can hide what they really are to one another: the little tilt in her moan when she cannot fathom how much she needs him, his eyes widening for a half-second because he's overwhelmed with adoration.

But he's the only man who'll dress them up in matching robes after, who will play it back while they're in bed and he's feeding her chocolates and he's touching her so slowly that it almost isn't sexual - and they're watching themselves fall apart on a television screen because there's nothing better.

And that's just delicious.

/

**what are you afraid of?**

Blair curls into his chest, and Chuck attempts not to smirk when she so obviously shudders against him in the dimly-lit room, curtains drawn, blood being slashed and screams being drawn from the TV screen before them.

But Blair Waldorf is unafraid - and Chuck Bass will always silently accept whomever she wishes to be, so he is quiet when he wraps a robed arm around her delicate frame, pretends to stroke her hair when he's really covering her ears.

"How can you be so calm?" Blair huffs, jumping against him when the masked man reveals another gory horror.

"Because," Chuck begins, and he considers saying something slick, considers forcing a temporary laugh from her luscious lips. But they both ache for something more permanent, and so he decides to take her hand in his, sliding her fingertips along the scar running along his stomach, a half-moon, white on his skin. "Because, this is the only thing I've ever been afraid of. It only haunts me to lose you."

Blair softens, does not shy away, does not hesitate to stroke along his belly, kiss below his jaw. The room seems to brighten, and she sounds awfully young, innocence before the _boom_ of a gunshot wound, when she whispers, "Perhaps we can protect each other."

/

**little things.**

"You don't like it," Chuck states, curling his lip, a little boy's pout that he'll only ever let her see. But Blair is too stunned into silence - too captivated by the little purple bow-tie he has just placed atop the swell of her pregnant belly - to say a word.

"It was silly," Chuck continues on, "I'm Chuck Bass, and I…could've bought you diamonds, I could have flown you to Paris for Christmas - " Outside, snow beats upon their windowpane as surely as the beat of her heart, and her lips part to drag in a stunned little breath.

"Chuck, I love it," Blair breathes, shifting over, quite uncomfortably, her belly a roadblock from being in his arms. In her other hand, she clutches a silver necklace against her collarbone, another matching bow at its end.

"Don't you know how much I look up to you?" Blair watches her husband's eyes light up like a little boy's, a look that he'll only ever let her see.

"Chuck, don't you realize that all I want is for our son to end up exactly like you?"


	4. IV

**hesitation.**

He's staring at himself in the hotel mirror, black swim trunks hugging his hips, the hair on his full chest spreading over white skin, his hair light from the sun and handsomely quaffed above his forehead - the sight makes Blair's face warm, and she smiles, goes off to touch him, until she realizes that he's frowning, frowning down at his stomach.

She knows what Chuck is thinking immediately - they're like that, two bodies, one wickedly flawed brain - and her smile drops when she imagines that her boyfriend might be comparing himself, his lithe yet imperfect body, to the one who came before.

_There's no before_, Blair wants to tell him. _You're it._

But instead, she smiles, wraps her slightly golden arms around his body, chin on his shoulder, and Chuck is startled, a vulnerable expression desperate to return to its usual nonchalance.

"You're so handsome, Bass," Blair promises, touching every inch of doubt away. "I love every part of you," she whispers.

And she doesn't stop until he believes it.

/

**delicacy.**

If Blair Waldorf doesn't verbally attack him at least once per day, Chuck gets concerned, which is why he's especially cautious upon visiting her today - one light knock on the door, one hand poised to shield his face in case he's done something wrong.

But when he discovers his girlfriend, she's curled up beneath a tundra of blankets, just the line of her arm stretching across silk, clutching onto a remote and soiled tissue, just her ruddy cheeks and bright nose, eyes hazy on the television screen before her.

Chuck frowns at himself, frowns at her before shedding his jacket, blocking her view of Audrey as he sits against the curve of her front, watching her peer up at him, her lips raw, her hair wild, but she says nothing when he wraps an arm around her, when he flicks the gross tissue away and proffers a clean one.

And it's not until after she's fallen asleep against the crook of his neck, phlegmy breaths disturbing him but he doesn't mind that much, fingers fever-hot against the skin of his neck, that he observes with some disbelief, "I like taking care of you."

/

**bent in half.**

Chuck Bass has always had a thing for rooftops, and it's no surprise that his children catch the same habit. He's sitting there, barely feeling the night's chill, barely looking at the moon, when he feels his daughter brush the arm of his suit, her eyes glistening, black mascara smudged in a way that shouldn't look so beautiful.

They share a cigar after he warns her not to tell Henry (because that's usually _his _thing with Chuck), after Audrey warns him not to rat her out to Blair (because her mother is too murderous to cross), and she's still crying a bit when she murmurs, "I broke his heart, Dad. To protect myself. I just didn't realize that it was tethered to mine."

Audrey blows out smoke, and Chuck says nothing, just massages the curve of her pale shoulder when she whispers, "I've spent my entire life pretending to be strong, and all I feel is broken."

Chuck blows out smoke, and Audrey says nothing, just leans into her father's chest when he whispers, "You're so much like me that it hurts sometimes."

/

**silk.**

The gesture would be a little too domestic, had Blair not worn her robe unbuckled, loose to reveal naked skin underneath, the sharp jolt of her collarbone, the flushed softness everywhere else. She is pale and pink underneath the smooth silk and even manages to seduce herself.

"You love wearing my things," Chuck says, admiring the way the fabric splits until it gathers at her navel, and his throat is dry, and his hands are trembling, and when he slides the silk buckle over her chest, _he _is the one who shivers.

"I love wearing _this_," Blair corrects, lifting a leg, one calf on his shoulder, the fabric pooling more on the chaise than on herself. "It makes me feel like a queen."

Blair looks at him, in black silk and propped on one knee, mussed hair and full lips, a dark knight awaiting her next utterance. She smiles, "You make me feel like a queen."

/

**necessary distractions.**

_"Blair, I'm really trying hard to - "_

Hard. Such a simple word, stirred with the five gulps of rosé she's just had, light up her eyes with blatant mischief, a smile that is almost childlike - _almost_, yet her manicured fingers are currently slipping underneath their private table atop the highest Parisian rooftop, and even the Eiffel Tower seems to dim a bit, embarrassed by their display.

_"Blair, I want to - "_

The velvet box is a mere inch away from where her hands are spreading across his thigh, a finger trailing up his length, a pearly tooth biting into her bottom lip, a brown curl tickling his neck when she inches forward, drapes herself across him while the City of Lights keeps on shining below.

_"Blair - "_

She steals his words away, and this is why he hates her, and this is why he could never fathom loving anybody else, and this is why he slips the engagement ring on her finger while she's writhing on his lap, panting his name - and the whole thing is in true Chuck Bass style.

They leave the city a little brighter when they go.

/

**diamond dollhouses.**

It's a palace on Park Avenue, and Blair cries when she sees it, overwhelmed by the floor-to-ceiling glass, twinkling in a haze of pinks and blues, marble and silk like the everything it should be - and she stumbles, turns in her hysteria and falls into her husband's arms, wetting his suit with salty tears when he whispers _"sweetheart" _and makes her cry harder.

She storms away, humiliated at breaking down in front of their real estate agent, mutters something about being three months pregnant, that it's really all Chuck's fault that she's this way, and he allows it, smirks as he gives her his coat and tells her to take a breather on the balcony.

"Is your wife alright?"

Chuck glances up at the agent, strokes a hand across his jaw. "She's overwhelmed - and infuriated that she allowed herself to be overwhelmed." He smiles to himself, glances back before he goes to join Blair outside.

"Remember, the fact that I had this remodeled after her scrapbook doodles is confidential," Chuck snaps with all of the authority he can muster up.

"Blair likes to believe in fate. And I like to believe in her."


	5. V

**voyeurs.**

The air is a little gritty, and Blair knows that Chuck chose this place on purpose, chose to taint her diamonds in dirt, chose to take her hand and hoist her up against a thick black wall, one thigh between her legs, the speed of her racing heart matching the low thrum of the club music exactly.

"You love it here, don't you?" Chuck's voice is in her ear, hands sliding to where it's inappropriate to touch in public. Over his shoulder, Blair has her eyes set on another couple, panting and writhing just near them, ghastly sounds escaping their lips, and she flushes, eyes wide.

Chuck pulls back, glances between his girlfriend and the couple, then says, "Blair, we can go…"

"No," Blair pants, grabbing his hand to drag it between her legs, her gaze still trained on their sloppier counterparts. "No, I want to watch."

Chuck thinks he goes unconscious for a moment, deliriously in love with the wicked little brunette in his arms.

/

**clarity.**

He catches Blair slipping away from the table of dry turkey and even drier jokes to duck into her room, another bathroom visit to add to her five-year routine, and their own little world is oblivious to Blair's falling apart.

Chuck excuses himself with a naughty flourish that makes the cougars grin and their husbands blanch, and he follows his best friend's girlfriend ten steps behind until the bathroom door slams shut behind her, and all that's left is the run of a faucet over her own gagged whimpers.

Chuck doesn't stay and he doesn't go - Blair Waldorf is the sweetest sort of purgatory - so he slides down, sits back against her door and tries to listen past the madness and catch the thumps of a broken heart that may just match his own.

He's been hearing it clearly ever since.

/

**cherries, winks, and hot tubs.**

They're fifteen, and Chuck thinks that this may just be the first time Blair's gotten this drunk, tipsy in her little red two-piece, white cherries printed all over it, damp brown curls piled up in a prim chignon despite her inebriated state, and he decides to ignore the obvious thump of his heart, the churn of heat in his lower stomach when the water recedes below her flushed cleavage.

While Nate and Serena are across the tub, two blonde puppies playing with bubbles, Chuck stares at Blair, and she stares back, raises her eyebrows, then lets the strap of her bikini slip from one shoulder, bites into her lip until it's as plump and red as the suit.

_"Bass," _Blair mouths, then licks her lips, eyes bright, like she knows how naughty this all is, but she's decidedly too drunk to care, and he groans, throat tightening when he attempts to swim over to her, but she plucks away just in time, saunters back into the summer house without so much as a glance back in his direction.

The moment is not spoken of again, and Blair fitfully ignores him as she always does the next morning, when they're all packing up to return to the city, and Chuck almost decides to stash the moment into his untouchable collection when - she winks at him, sober and knowing, the cherry bikini poking out from her suitcase in broad daylight.

Chuck doesn't see that wink again for another two years, over her shoulder as her dress hits the floor - on the stage of a club known to most as Victrola.

/

**aftershocks.**

"Don't move," he rasps before biting into her ear.

Blair has always been porcelain, but this time is different, there's a fresh wound, a product of childbirth across her belly, and she's thin glass teetering at the edge of hardwood.

Chuck holds her like he did eight years ago in the limo, big hands on her writhing body, and he never knows quite what to do when he has the entire world in his grip.

Blair protests at first, complains she can barely feel him, but Chuck sees the wince every time he thrusts forward, him on his knees, her laying back, their fingers intertwined, and it becomes a slow dance, so beautifully choreographed that she wants to cry.

_You carry people_, Blair remembers breathlessly, blindly. _You carry me._

_/_

**trust.**

Blair reaches out to find a familiar soft chest, her diamond ring glinting on her finger, and in turn, glinting against his skin, and she whimpers because her nightmare has left tears on her cheeks, a lump in her throat that will not flee, and the words haunt her:

_"I knew I couldn't trust you."_

She shoves his side with a whispered, _Bass_, and he groans into her shoulder, turns over when she pinches him, scratches down his back, slaps at his thigh, until he threatens to file against her for domestic abuse, and sleepily kisses her elbow goodnight.

The next morning, Blair is quiet at breakfast, popping grapes into her mouth as Chuck reads a newspaper beside her, until he unceremoniously gets up, disappears into their room, returns with a familiar checkered pattern in his hands.

"I know what you're worried about," Chuck drawls as he places his treasured scarf around her neck, a silly gesture, a move that means everything. "I know now, Blair." He pinches the material of the scarf, skims the skin of her pale neck. "There isn't anyone I trust more than I trust you."

/

**various states of inebriation.**

There might be lights twinkling, or it might be all of the booze, Chuck's scotch, Blair's martini, and they switch at their wedding reception, drink out of each other's glasses because the whole thing is supposed to be symbolic - _or something_.

In a hour, the two have practically cleaned out the entire bar, and when Serena tries to cut them off, when Nate makes a second attempt, they announce that they're _Mr and Mrs Bass _- that they have each other, that they can do whatever they want - and no one can think to stop the drunken newlyweds when their hands are clasped tightly together for all to see.

In another hour, the two have cleared out the entire hall with their dirty, drunken ramblings, of this spot Chuck finds when Blair bends over just the right way, of this thing he likes when she's on her knees, and they go back and forth, smiling and slurring, because even something this amorous is a challenge between them.

"I'll finish the game," Blair finally smirks, leans over, a little off balance in her wedding dress, "I'll love you forever."

And she does win the game. No tantric position can top that.


	6. VI

**kitten.**

_For her, it's during. _

Chuck has called Blair _kitten _during sex for as long as she can remember.

She often forgets that it's supposed to sound slimy, that she should be appalled by a nickname given to more than one renowned porn star, but it's hard to focus on that when he slips his fingers to the place that makes her bend, and her tongue is vibrating against low mewls, instant gratification.

He taunts. Every time.

But there's this moment right after the damn bursts, just as Chuck presses his hips against hers, twists her leg at an odd angle while his eyes roll back, then squeeze shut - that's when Blair smiles as she listens close, his groans fading into a low, contented purr, a lazy cat drinking up his milk.

_For him, it's after._

/

**the boiling point.**

_They're sixteen, at the edge of a boiling point that neither could see coming in its entirety._

"What, Bass? Obsessed with your best friend's girlfriend?" Blair smirks, rolls her eyes as she and Chuck watch Nate retreat to grab them drinks. "That's a little typical, don't you think?"

"Your denial is…adorable," Chuck smirks back, a wicked slant to his smile when she scowls at the adjective. "The clock is ticking, Waldorf, and we both know it. Tell me, is your face so red when you banter with Nate?" He pauses. "That is, if my dear pal can even manage that."

"It's never going to happen," Blair snaps, pinching at his hand when it strays too close to her side. "There isn't enough alcohol in the world. Why don't you try Serena?"

"_Never_ sounds so final," Chuck taunts. "And I don't want Serena." He watches as Blair draws in a breath at the comment and smiles, "What, Waldorf? Intrigued by your boyfriend's best friend?" He tips her chin with the pad of his thumb. "That's a little typical, don't you think?"

_They're sixteen, at the edge of a boiling point that ends up burning them both._

/

**love and other natural disasters.**

There's only silence at first, but there never is with them, so Blair doesn't know whether to shy away or savor it, doesn't know whether he's already fallen asleep or if he's pretending for both of their sakes.

_There is nothing to say._

She closes her eyes, feels his shoulders relax under every one of her gentle strokes, listens to the gentle hum of his breaths, quivering like the aftershocks of his father's death, and she holds him, curves against his back, kisses him until she knows that it'll hurt in the morning.

_Because there is everything to say._

/

**viewpoint.**

"I feel like a teenager again," Blair muses, lifting her menu up and in front of her face, keeping her eye steady on the couple across the room, smirking devilishly when her husband does the same.

"Now, we both know that we'd be in that back hall, your dress around her hips, your back against the wall," Chuck drawls evenly, his hand on her knee and on other places underneath the table. " - If we were teenagers again."

He waits for Blair's moan, and almost misses it when -

"You _didn't_."

Dark eyes flicker up to find their son standing at the table, eyes furious and narrowed. Henry frowns as his date glances at the family curiously.

"Charlotte, let's go," he snaps in Chuck and Blair's general direction before whispering under his breath, "_Stalkers_."

/

**nueva acapulco**

They arrive at the same time, Blair's Tiffany blue fingernails and Barbara's cocked hip signaling only authority as the two girls glance at one another, eyes raking over their identically styled headbands - one blue and one red.

"This is our table," Blair snaps.

"Um, hello. This is _our _table," rebuts Bárbara, a Spanish twinge on the words.

With narrowed eyes, they continue to bicker, their dates' smarmy additions only intensifying the whole argument. Bárbara slaps Max's hand away from her shoulder just as Blair stomps on Chuck's foot when he suggests going elsewhere.

"He's incorrigible," the girls murmur at the same time, then glance at each other with wide eyes, with slow smirks, and the tension turns to low chatter, which turns to animated squealing over this season's Balenciaga, their favorite cafes in Paris, and how successful they've been in turning billionaire playboys into peony-purchasing romantics - if they do say so themselves.

A table for two, and the boys are forgotten.

So they size each other up, pursed lips and ascots tied around their necks, silently competing over Bass jets and Zaga yachts before they give in with hefty sighs and take a stroll down Park to commiserate over how they both failed at not falling in love.

/

**beautiful things.**

"I'm pregnant," Blair breathes, then crinkles her tiny nose, the little habit she has when she's nervous. "We're…having a baby. Our baby."

It knocks the breath out of him, and she can see it in the way he glances at her, then at her stomach, then back at her, waiting until she smiles and nods to drop down to his knees, to lift her dress up under her breasts and face the curve of her pale stomach.

"Hi, baby," Chuck greets, but the words sound ridiculous under the low rasp of his deep voice. Blair runs her fingers through his hair, but does not interrupt.

"I just wanted to…tell you that I'll love you a lot. I spent seven years memorizing your mother, and I can't wait to do the same with you. I…" He glances up at Blair, his neck flushing red. "You can always come sit in my office, if you want. Or…you can be whatever you decide. Clad in purple pants or not."

Chuck makes more promises, endless ones, and when he's done, Blair bends to sit in his lap.

He cries against the curve of her neck for seven whole minutes, and it's a beautiful thing.


	7. VII

**keys.**

When Chuck plays for her, it's near midnight, his shirt is unbuttoned, his bow-tie is half-knotted, and his hair stands in the sexy way that she likes as Blair leans into him, her nightgown caught over her round stomach.

"Are you still crying?" Chuck whispers it when she nuzzles her nose into the nape of his neck, and as he talks, he still plays, fingers deft across the keyboard, but Blair doesn't answer - there are tears on her cheeks, for a different reason this time.

Chuck's song sounds like burlesque at one AM, like the sharp twists of fate's car crashes, like a gunshot, then everything that came after - like the rock song that was playing on the radio of his limo when she unraveled everything for him.

/

**luck.**

He takes Henry to this meeting, lets him sit at his desk with "big boy" paperwork before he discusses a grand property deal near midtown. They're both waiting, donning identical blazers and squared jaws, when Henry frowns, pulls a strip of lace from Chuck's briefcase and examines it.

"Daddy, what's this?"

Chuck glances down, the nape of his neck flushing red, and he can practically smell the perfume Blair was wearing on that first night in Victrola as he takes the headband back from his son.

"Just…a lucky charm," he amends, tucking the silky band into the pocket of his suit.

Beside him, Henry mouths the words, thinking for a moment, then cocks his head to ask, "Like the bow-tie Mommy carries in her purse?"

/

**haunted.**

"Waldorf, don't tell me that you opted against the skanky kitten costume this year," Chuck complains, staring down at the nape of her neck with a half-empty drink in one hand, and although she doesn't turn around, he can imagine the smirk on her face. "Why not take after the other girls, with their keen eye for exhibitionism?"

"No," Blair sighs, attempting complete apathy, "There's this thing I have called decorum. I wouldn't expect you to understand."

At that, she swivels around, and Chuck draws in a sharp breath, realizing that the high collar of her costume, the innocent wisp of white ivory stops at the scandalous dip of her neckline to reveal ample cleavage, jewels drawn onto her skin, cherry-stained lips smiling against candle light - Marie Antoinette at her finest hour.

"And, Bass?" Blair calls out before she goes to rejoin the Halloween haze downstairs. His mouth is dry, and he can only manage the lift of one brow. "I'm not like the other girls. You should know better."

The slit of her dress reveals a pale pink garter as she goes.

_Oh, he does._

_/_

**snapshots.**

The first click comes when she's half asleep, begrudgingly nestled into Chuck Bass's silk sheets, her Constance uniform slung over a lounge chair and long forgotten as he snaps a picture, then another…of her naked bottom.

"_Chuck_," Blair breathes, curling into herself, then reaching over to lazily slap the camera from his hands, but he - all clad in that delicious purple robe - is too quick and snaps another shot, the underside of her breast this time.

"I'm preparing you for our sex tape, Waldorf."

Blair pinches him hard and smiles when she knows it hurts. "Then allow me to prepare you for a rude awakening, Bass."

But the banter stops when the camera raises, to her face this time, and Blair is caught breathless because he ignores all of the parts that are supposed to be important to boys like him, bypasses the flushed cleavage and glistening sex for her rosy cheeks, the mole on her shoulder, the glow of her eyes -

For the first time, she's so beautiful that someone feels the need to document it.

For the first time, Chuck is so enamored that he feels the need to document that too.

/

**beauties and beasts.**

It's frustrating because there isn't supposed be a thing that Chuck Bass can't do, but here he is, one big hand clasping all five of Blair's little fingers, his steps almost brutish as they step back and forth in the empty dance studio.

"This is stupid," Chuck claims, hazel eyes rolling up to the ceiling, his other fingers toying with the fabric at her hip as a little boy would. "Chuck Bass doesn't dance."

"Chuck Bass doesn't embarrass himself at cotillion," Blair snaps back, silently hoping that he won't call this off here and now, silently hoping that he won't wonder why she didn't ask her prince to practice with her.

"Why do you care? I'm not your date." Chuck's smile is bitter, his hands squeeze then relax, the agitation and hurt clear on his features, and Blair doesn't like it - she misses the gentle smirk that he saves only for her.

"Relax, Bass," Blair finally whispers, hooking her arms around his neck, smiling at the subtle catch of his breath when she bows her body against his. "I'll lead."

And she does lead, shallow breaths against his shoulder, footsteps sounding to silence, and she considers that this fairytale has more twists than she remembered.

/

**signatures.**

They'd played with it countless of times, Blair's fingers curling against the tassels, her cheek brushing against the interwoven, silky threads when he'd bend her over, one hand cupping her shoulder, the other running trembling fingers through her hair as if it were fabric itself.

The scarf is his signature.

"When you said you wanted to play with it," Chuck says one night after finding his girlfriend sprawled out on their chaise under candlelight. "I expected to find you naked, wearing onlythe scarf."

"Not quite," Blair smirks, stands up to push him down with a startling amount of force. "Because tonight, the tables have turned, Bass."

She runs her fingers over the tassels and smiles. "And I want you. Naked. Wearing _only _the scarf."

The scarf is her toy to play with.


End file.
